He pulls my left wrist toward him, smiling nonstop, then pushes my sleeve up and twists my wrist as though he wants to check my watch. His nails bite into my skin. My watch strap’s loose, which gives him the excuse to keep twisting until he can see the numbers. Pain shoots up my arm. I lower my shoulder, trying not to flinch, clinging to the books and CDs in my other hand.

“I’ll go home right now.”

He drops my arm. “Good,” he says. “I’d better go back to work.”

He strides between two of the Cobalts and disappears inside the glass doors of the showroom. Rubbing my wrist, I scuttle behind a big black truck. GMC Canyon. If I’d been paying attention, I could have avoided him.

1.3 [half-split]

THE ATV is parked behind Sobeys. I jam my hair under my helmet, not easy because it’s long and thick, and buckle up. Floyd has his hair trimmed every three weeks by a barber who used to be in the military.

The mall backs onto Dave Sanger’s woodlot; a network of trails through the trees around Hilchey Bay connects the houses, the river, and the logging roads. To go home, I follow the river upstream as far as the bridge. We had the wettest June in years, so what with mud and the usual rocks, steering takes concentration plus four-wheel drive.

Our place is near the bridge; Floyd inherited the house and all the furniture from his father before I was born. You can’t see the house from the road because of the forest and because the driveway curves around some granite boulders. Erratics, left by the glaciers 10,000 years ago when the granite was already 370 million years old. Does this reduce Floyd to size? I wish.

Just as well the house doesn’t show from the road because it’s in serious need of a coat of paint and a new roof. Trees crowd around it as if they’re propping it up.

I take the last bend, gravel spitting from under the tires, and jam the brakes on without even thinking about it. The ATV slews toward the ditch. To one side of Opal’s car two cords of split hardwood have been dumped on the ground.

He did warn me.

Jeez, I’m not psyched for this. It happens once a year, and once a year it’s my job to turn the heap into a woodpile. You’ve heard of obedience training? I’m the beagle.

I’ll start after lunch, even though I won’t do it right. Beats being accused of slacking off.